Page 12 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
Anger.
It was everything at once, swirling in a vortex that demanded to be released.
I screamed.
The kitchen window shattered, sending shards of glass spiraling outward, glittering like fireflies before raining to the floor. Light—searing, red-orange light—pulsed from my skin, veins glowing as if my very soul had caught fire.
The energy roared within me, relentless and untamed, gnawing at my insides like a wild beast desperate to break free.
“Elara, breathe, my darling—” Mother’s voice rang out, trembling, urgent. Her silhouette appeared in front of me, eyes wide with terror, hands reaching forward.
But it was too late.
My body arched, and my skin ignited with unbearable heat as if flames were consuming me. The raw energy surged outward, and I felt the fierce fire begin todance in the palms of my hands. In an explosive surge of instinctive desperation, I slammed my fist into the kitchen floor with a force that reverberated through the ground. In response, a tempest of flames erupted around me, bursting into a magnificent spectacle reminiscent of a fiery dragon. The inferno swept across the floor beneath me, devouring everything in its path and leaving behind a searing trail that twisted and danced, crackling with wild, insatiable hunger. The air grew thick with heat and the scent of charred wood as the fierce flames roared and lunged forward, hungry for more.
Panic clawed at my throat as the flames spiraled higher up my arms. Mother gasped sharply, her breath catching in the chaos. I was scarcely aware of her presence until I felt her hand settle firmly on my shoulder, a grounding weight amidst the turmoil, as she tried to pull me back from the brink. But all I could feel was agony.
I staggered backward, the fire now coiling around me like serpents. My arms glowed with molten veins of flame. I tried to stop it—tried—but the magic wouldn’t listen. It didn’t care that I was scared. It didn’t care that Mother was still inside the house.
The next things to go were the shelves—their rows of dried herbs and glass jars, shattering into sparks and shards, scattering her life’s work across the floor. The beeswax candles cracked and melted in an instant, dripping golden rivulets that hissed into the fire. Honey jars exploded like little suns, molten sweetness running across the table before the flames devoured it.
Our home became an inferno. The cottage that had always smelled of chamomile tea, lavender poultices, and warm bread with honey now reeked of smoke, ash, and ruin.
Another agonized scream erupted from my lips as the relentless fire crept further up my body, the heat singeing my tunic but not my skin. In a surreal moment, I watchedhelplessly as my mother was thrown across the fiery room by an unseen force of magic, her body crashing against the wall with a sickening thud.
What had I done?!
“Mother!” I screamed, my voice cracking with desperation, torn between the searing pain coursing through me and the uncontainable blaze that raged within.
My heart raced as I saw her motionless form. The flames roared hungrily, licking up the walls and devouring the ceiling, where layers of paint began to peel away like shedding skin. Splintering wood beams tumbled from above, crashing perilously close to my mother’s still body.
“Mother!” I cried, my voice hoarse, lost in the roar.
The urgency of my voice rose as the fire consumed everything around me. Summoning an inner strength I didn’t know I possessed, I forced myself to rise despite the consuming power swirling within.
I raced toward her, panic driving my every step. The fire parted briefly around me, as if recognizing me as its source. I dropped beside Mother, eyes stinging from the smoke. I reached for her, needing to feel her, to pull her into safety, to fix everything. But the moment my hand touched her skin, she screamed—a sound so sharp, so pained, it split something inside me.
She screamed because I had burned her.
A searing imprint of my hand bubbled across her arm, angry and red, already blistering. I tore my hand back as if she had burned me instead, my heart shattering.
“No—no no no—” The word tangled in my throat as the ceiling groaned again and more flaming debris rained down like the wrath of the gods themselves.
Then—something hit me. A rush of air, fierce and sudden, slammed into my chest and hurled me backward. My body collided with the edge of the wooden table, ribs cracking, the breath knocked clean from my lungs.
And then brief darkness.
A heavy crack as something struck the side of my skull—blinding light, then shadows, then pain so sharp it made me choke. Warmth trickled down my cheek.
Blood.
Smoke coiled in my lungs, clawing at my throat, and I gagged, my vision splintering like shattered glass.
For a heartbeat, I lay there, paralyzed.
I saw it before it happened. I screamed before it landed.
More of the ceiling crashed down, debris raining around us. I instinctively shielded my head as another heavy beam plummeted from above, this time landing directly over Mother. The impact was deafening. The beam crushed her beneath it, burying her fragile frame under its merciless weight.
